


Sunset Division Episode 2-Mid Watch Part-2

by Firebuff51 (DCMUFics)



Series: Sunset Division [2]
Category: Adam-12, Colors (1988), End of Watch (2012), Hunter (US TV 1984)
Genre: Action, California, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Gen, LAPD, Los Angeles, Police, Police Procedural, References to Drugs, corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 07:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16614671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCMUFics/pseuds/Firebuff51
Summary: Sunset Division follows the street cops and detectives assigned to the LAPD's newest station.As the watch wears on, Reed and Malloy encounter a hostile crowd. Reed runs afoul of two senior officers. Hunter and Pace draw closer to uncovering the motivation and suspect behind their murder case. Pacman and Orozco find that their day is getting progressively worse. A citizen lodges a complaint over Zavala's conduct. Sunset officers are involved in a dangerous pursuit.





	Sunset Division Episode 2-Mid Watch Part-2

_ **Sunset Division** _

 

**Episode 2**

 

“ _You can have a laugh in Los Angeles, or you can weep in Los Angeles, depending on your attitude toward it.” -Miranda Richardson_ **  
**  
  
Previously in Sunset Division:

 

Detectives Hunter and Pace investigated the case of a young man who had been murdered in the street, whom they believe was the subject of a hit.

 

Pete Malloy returned to duty after an officer involved shooting to find himself partnered with Jim Reed, a young officer fresh off of probation.

 

Taylor and Zavala responded to an armed robbery where the suspect was a dwarf.

 

Orozco and McGavin discovered a man and woman that had overdosed in a car, leaving the couple's two small children unsupervised.

 

“ _ **Mid Watch-Part 2”**_

 

“Where's my kids?! Where's my kids?!”, howled a woman with dirty brown hair as the LAFD paramedics loaded her into the back of an ambulance. “I am a good mother! You can't take them from me! You can't!”

 

“Funny what Narcan can do,” the fire captain said to Sergeant Rideout. “One shot can bring 'em from half-dead back into the real world, kicking and screaming, pissed that we killed their high.”

 

The ambulance carrying the woman's husband had already departed for the hospital.

 

Rideout spit out his worn toothpick and wedged a fresh one between his teeth.

 

“How're the kids?”

 

“They look fine.” the captain pulled off his exam gloves. “The baby's still sleeping and the three year old just seems hungry. I don't think she's eaten for a while. We've got 'em in the cab of our engine so they couldn't see their parents.”

 

Danny McGavin popped a stick of gum in his mouth and shook his head.

 

“Fuckin' junkies.”

 

“We handing 'em over to DCFS now?” asked his partner, Emily Orozco as she leaned against their patrol SUV, arms folded.

 

“I've got a juvie unit en route,” the tall sergeant replied. “They'll take the kids first. You two better get back out there.”

 

The officers climbed back into their unit and backed out of the alley. The little girl with the dirty face waved happily at Orozco from the window of the fire engine as they passed.

 

Orozco waved back from the shotgun seat, then quickly slipped on her dark shades. She sighed and tapped on the MDT's keyboard.

 

“You good?” asked McGavin.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She paused, then slammed her fist against the door panel three times.

 

“I'm fine,” she cleared her throat. “I'm fine.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Tyrell Xavier Anthony opened the door of his Mid-City apartment to see two men in suits standing before him.

 

“Aw, what the fuck is this shit?” he sighed. “I already checked in with my P.O. yesterday.”

 

“Do we look like we're from Probation, Tyrell?” Hunter said as he held up his shield. “LAPD. I'm Detective Hunter, this is my partner, Detective Pace. We'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

 

“No,” Anthony slipped his hands into the pockets of his robe. “Hell no.”

 

“Keep your hands out of your pockets,” Pace warned.

 

Anthony sucked his teeth as he pulled his hands from the robe.

 

“What do you want, anyway?”

 

“Where were you this morning between five-thirty and six a.m.?” asked Hunter.

 

“Shit, man,” Anthony rubbed his eyes. “I was at work. I work graveyard shift, which was why I was sleepin' when you cops woke me up knockin' on my door. Y'all can check that shit out with my boss. We got cameras everywhere, too.”

 

“Where do you work at?” asked Pace.

 

“The Target in Koreatown. I work on the stockin' crew.”

 

“Do you know Darius Nichols?”

 

“I don't know nobody named Darius.”

 

“How about Simone Robbins?” Hunter folded his arms. “You know her?”

 

“Simone?” Anthony laughed with derision. “Yeah, unfortunately. She my ex. Wait, what did she say I do? That bitch is crazy, you know? I mean, shit.”

 

“How so?” asked Pace.

 

“She was mad jealous. Like, she was always worried I was cheating on her an' shit.”

 

Hunter nodded.

 

“Did you?”

 

“Hell no. I mean, I look, but I don't touch, you know? I find me a quality female, I ain't gonna fuck that shit up by slippin'. When I was with her, all I did was go to work and come home. If I was ten minutes late, bitch be blowin' up my phone. I got tired of it finally and I bounced. Next day, Simone rolls through my old job at Lowe's, startin' all kinds of drama and shit. She grabbed a hammer off the rack and threw that shit at me. I got a damned scar on my arm. I'm telling you, bitch was crazy. For real, what she say I do?”

 

“When was the last time you talked to her?” inquired Pace.

 

Anthony shrugged.

 

“I don't know, man. Probably around Christmas, when we broke up.”

 

“She told us that _you_ were the jealous type, Tyrell,” Hunter replied. “She said that you threatened to kill whoever she dated next.”

 

Anthony's eyes grew wide.

 

“Kill?! I ain't never said I'd kill nobody! What the _fuck_ , man? Simone said I killed someone? That's crazy, man. I wouldn't hurt nobody! I never have!”

 

“What about your arrest for attempting to assault a police officer?” asked Pace.

 

“That was some bullshit. I got drunk and loud. I tripped, cop said I was trying to come at him so he threw my ass on the ground and arrested me. I'm telling you officers-”

 

“Detectives,” Hunter reminded him.

 

Anthony sighed and raised his hands, clasped as if in supplication.

 

“ _Detectives_. I'm tellin' you, I don't know what Simone said, but I didn't kill nobody.”

 

“Okay, Tyrell,” said Hunter, handing him his business card. “We're gonna check with your employer to verify your whereabouts. I wouldn't plan on leaving town anytime soon if I were you.”

 

“Pssh,” Anthony shrugged. “I'm too broke to go anywhere.”

 

XXXXXX

 

“Well, I'm not feelin' him,” Pace said as he and Hunter exited the apartment building.

 

“Me either,” Hunter pushed back his sport coat as he rested his hands on his hips. He gazed down the street thoughtfully. “Simone was awfully quick to put the finger on our boy Tyrell, wasn't she?”

 

Pace leaned back against their car, arms folded.

 

“She was. She was also pretty damned broken up over him. You think she's that good of an actress?”

 

Hunter smiled.

 

“My old partner Dee Dee and I handled a stabbing up in Runyon Canyon one time. This guy and his wife were jogging one of the trails around dusk and they both got stabbed. Wife was dead at the scene, husband was inconsolable. Uniforms said he wailed the entire way to the hospital. We get to the ER and the docs tell us that the husband's wounds were self-inflicted.”

 

Pace arched an eyebrow. Hunter nodded.

 

“He could've won an Oscar, right up until we dropped the hooks on him. Then his tears dried up real quick.”

 

“Okay,” Pace replied, opening his door. “So let's go dig into Ms. Robbins' past. What's she up to now, your old partner? You two were kinda legends. We even heard about you down in 77th when I was a boot.”  
  
“McCall?” Hunter slid in behind the steering wheel. “She moved up to RHD.”  
  
“You ever think about it yourself? Robbery-Homicide?”

 

Hunter started the car.

 

“Nah. RHD handles all of that high profile, serial shit. Division homicide table, you work the cases that usually don't make the news. Those people deserve justice just as much as some dead millionaire.”

 

“You're like Obi-Wan with this shit, Hunter.”  
  
Hunter laughed as they pulled into traffic.  
  


XXXXXX

 

“So who did you shoot?” asked Jim Reed as he and his partner Pete Malloy waited for a stop light.

 

“A kid,” Malloy replied, staring at the car ahead of them. “A fifteen year old kid. Curiosity got the best of you, huh?”

 

Reed shrugged.

 

“You mentioned it.”

 

Malloy nodded.

 

“It was a suicide by cop thing. FID, Internal Affairs, they all said it was a clean shoot.”

 

“I'm sorry you had to go through that, Malloy. Really.”

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

The light changed and they turned onto the next street to see that a small crowd was gathering at the next corner.

 

“What's going on here?” Reed wondered aloud as he lifted the microphone from its cradle.

 

As traffic cleared ahead of them, they could see that the crowd had begun to gather around an LAPD patrol car.

 

Malloy stepped on the accelerator.

 

“Call it in.”

 

“22-Adam-12, officers need assistance,” called Reed, as he blasted the siren twice. “Vinewood and Archer, 415 crowd gathering. Requesting two additional units and a supervisor.”

 

Their Charger screeched to a halt behind the first black and white. They emerged to see two middle-aged officers standing on the sidewalk gesturing forcefully at the group of approximately ten men.

 

“Get back! Now!” Malloy barked, pointing with his baton at the crowd.

  
“Back!” Reed echoed his partner. “Break it up!”

 

“This is bullshit!” one man yelled, pointing at a young man seated in the back of the first unit. “They're lockin' up a kid for jaywalking! Look at him!”

 

“Go home!” Malloy said sternly. “This isn't gonna solve anything.”

 

“Fuckin' cops think they can do whatever they want!” shouted another man as he stepped backward.

 

Malloy stepped forward.

 

“Last time! Go home or go to jail!”

 

The man held up his hands and then walked away, shaking his head.

 

“Anybody else?” Reed called to the departing group.

 

“Don't you worry, David!” the first man called to the detained youth as he backed down the sidewalk. “I'll let your mama know! It's gonna be okay.”

 

A patrol SUV slowed as it approached. Reed held up four fingers, indicating a _Code-4_ , everything was under control. The officer behind the wheel waved in acknowledgment and merged back into traffic.

 

“Thanks for the assist,” replied a beefy officer wearing a nameplate marked _Watson._

 

Malloy slid his baton into the ring on his Sam Browne.

 

“What was that about?”

 

“This stupid kid jaywalked right in front of us,” replied the second officer, a lanky, gray haired cop named Chavez. “We ran him and it turns out this 'kid' is actually nineteen and has an outstanding robbery warrant. Soon as we hook him, these ne'er do wells hanging out down by the liquor store started shouting shit and made their way over to air their grievances.”

 

“We didn't hear you go Code-6,” said Malloy.

 

“Nah, kid just walked out in front of us,” said Watson. “So, we just-”

 

“You didn't go Code-6, you had a group of ten advancing on you and you didn't call for back up,” said Reed, shaking his head.

 

“Excuse me, Junior?” Chavez stepped past his partner. “You think we've never handled an angry crowd before? You're talkin' to a couple of senior officers here.”

 

Reed hooked his fingers over the collar of his vest.

 

“Senior officers with bad tactics.”

 

Watson glared at the younger officer.

 

“Pete, you better get a handle on your boot here.”

 

Malloy raised his hands.

 

“He's not a boot, Watson. Let's just dial it back a little bit.”

 

“He looks like a fuckin' boot to me,” Chavez spat. “Fuckin' P-2's get five minutes on the job and think they're _Robocop_. I worked the '92 riots and the North Hollywood shootout. I don't need some kid lecturing _me_ about tactics.”  
  
“You really wanna do this next to your shop?” Malloy folded his arms. “You're prisoner's gettin' an earful. Think he's gonna keep this little exchange to himself?”  
  
“Whatever,” Watson turned his back. “Like I said, thanks for the assist.”

 

Reed and Malloy climbed back into their unit.

 

“22-Adam-12, clear,” Reed notified the dispatcher.

 

“Did you talk to P-3's like that when you were a boot?” asked Malloy.

 

“No.”

 

“Like I said, you might not be a rookie, but you're still not on equal footing with guys who were doing this job while you were still in diapers. You still have to show some respect to the ones who came before you.”

 

“I know, you're right,” sighed Reed. “But those _were_ bad tactics.”

 

Malloy nodded.

 

“Yes they were. Some of the veteran coppers can get complacent about stuff like that.”

 

He slipped his shades back on, then began to chuckle uncontrollably.

 

“You really pissed them off,” he laughed. “Man, Watson's face was red.”

 

Reed laughed too. The partners continued their patrol.

 

XXXXXX

 

Sergeant Nishioka sat down at the Sunset Station watch desk with a bowl of his wife's vegan _yakisoba,_ hot from the microwave _._ He knew that she'd kick his ass if she ever found out he'd added a pork spare rib to it that he'd bummed from one of the gang detectives down the hall.  
  


He slipped the chopsticks from their paper wrapper and pulled them apart. As he was about to dig in, a uniformed officer leaned in through the doorway.

 

“Hey, Sarge, your girlfriend's out front again.”

 

“Goddamn it,” the veteran sergeant sighed. “Let the desk officer handle it.”  
  
“Tried that. As usual, she only wants to talk to _you_.”

 

Nishioka shook his head as he pushed back from the table and yanked the paper napkin from his collar.

 

“How the hell does she always know when I'm working?”

 

He made his way down the hall and stopped just around the corner where he could hear a familiar voice from the lobby, berating the desk officer. It was Juanita Bedford, a wealthy housewife in her fifties who lived in the hills on the northern edge of Sunset's area. Being the wife of a real estate mogul, as she would often tell anyone willing to listen, she felt a duty to use her privilege to help those in the community. She had glossy business cards printed up calling herself a _community activist_. Her activism mainly consisted of writing angry emails to the _L.A. Weekly_ and marching into Sunset Station to complain about its officers, haranguing whoever the poor sap was that drew desk duty that day about some perceived misconduct that she had heard over her police scanner.

 

“Do you know who I am? Do you know who my husband is?” she snapped with all the intonation of a teacher scolding a problem student. “I need to talk to Sergeant Nishioka! This is important! Where is he?”

 

Nishioka heaved a sigh and stepped around the corner.

 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bedford,” he said, stepping up behind the counter and motioning for the desk officer to step aside. “What seems to be the problem?”

 

Mrs. Bedford stood before the counter, hands on hips, wearing a pink T-shirt with _Black Lives Matter_ emblazoned on it in rhinestones. Fendi tortoise shell sunglasses rested atop her platinum blonde hair.

 

“I'll tell you what the problem is, Sergeant,” she said, pulling a scanner from her white Gucci bag and holding it above her head like a trophy. “I was listening to my scanner this morning. I heard your officers responding to a 211...an armed robbery...”  
  
“I know what a 211 is, Mrs. Bedford.”

 

“Well, I heard one of your officers describe the suspect as a _midget_. A _midget_ , Sergeant. That is ableist language. I have to say, I was shocked. In this day and age, to hear an LAPD officer just casually use a slur like that over the radio is unforgivable. Is this part of their training, to describe little people in such a manner?”  
  
Nishioka pursed his lips.

 

“No ma'am, it is not part of their training.”  
  
“Well, what do you intend to do about this? Or will this be another LAPD cover up?”

 

“Do you happen to recall the officer's unit number?”

 

She stared at him blankly.

 

“I don't know...it was twenty-two something...”

 

He folded his hands on the counter.

 

“This is the 22nd police station, Mrs. Bedford, all of our unit numbers start with twenty-two.”

 

“Well, you need to figure this out,” she said, slipping her sunglasses on. “I'll expect an update.”

 

“I'll definitely look into it,” Nishioka forced a pleasant smile. “Can I help you with anything else, Mrs. Bedford?”

 

“That's it...for now,” she called over her shoulder as she left.

 

“Sorry, Sergeant,” the desk officer said quietly. “I tried to handle it, but she wouldn't leave unless you came out.”

 

“It's alright, son. You're not the first guy she's steamed-rolled. Do me a favor, find out who worked that 211 on Spring this morning. I'll be back at the watch desk, eating cold noodles.”

 

XXXXXX

 

The _Original Tommy's_ burger chain was a Southern California institution, especially among LAPD officers. Many of the locations were essentially standalone shacks, where customers dined either on a small patio or in their cars. This was ideal for patrol officers who could enjoy a cheap, filling meal and still be able to leave quickly to respond to any hot shot calls.

 

Like most officers, Brian Taylor and Mike Zavala used the hood of their patrol car as a lunch table and ate standing up, to avoid dripping the restaurant's famous chili on their uniforms.  
  
“I'm serious bro, I can't even remember the last time Gabby and I had sex,” Zavala said, digging a plastic fork into his chili covered tamale.  
  


 

Taylor chewed his burger.

 

“Man, I don't need to hear that.”  
  
“Like, every time I think she's down and we start foolin' around, the baby starts crying or he starts making some little noise or some shit over the monitor and she has to go check and then, that's it. The mood's over. It's like I'm getting cock-blocked by an infant.”  
  
“You're giving me a lot to look forward to.”

 

“Get as freaky as you can with Janet now man, because after the baby comes, there's gonna be a drought.”

 

Taylor wiped his mouth with a paper towel napkin.

 

“I'm gonna tell my wife when I get home that Mike said we need to have a lot of sex. I'll see how that goes.”

 

“ _22-X-22_ ,” their radios squawked. “ _Call 22-L-40 at the watch desk._ ”

 

“Aw shit,” Zavala sighed. “The fuck does he want?”

 

“I'm clean, Z,” Taylor replied as he dialed his phone. “You probably did something.”

  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Which one is this?” Nishioka slurped a mouthful of noodles as he answered the watch desk extension.  
  
“This is Taylor, Sarge.”

 

“Taylor, which one of you dipshits called a suspect a _midget_ over the air this morning?”

 

Taylor mouthed the word _fuck_ and pointed at his partner _._ Zavala shot him a puzzled look.

 

“ _The fuck did I do?_ ” he whispered.

 

“I'm not sure what you mean, Sir...” Taylor started before Nishioka cut him off.  
  
“Don't give me that _Sir_ bullshit. Put Zavala on the phone.”

 

“ _Midget_ ,” Taylor mouthed as he handed the phone to his partner.

 

Zavala rolled his eyes and answered the phone.

 

“Sergeant-”  
  
“It was you, wasn't it?” asked Nishioka. “ _Midget_ is a slur, you know that, Zavala?”

 

“Uh, sir, at the time, I was concerned with broadcasting an accurate description of the suspect and in my haste, I used a word that I know now I shouldn't have and-”

 

“I'll give you a chance to amend your report so it reads like that,” the sergeant replied. “You're getting a verbal counseling over this too.”

 

Zavala nodded.

 

“I understand, Sir.”  
  
“Fucking Juanita Bedford heard your stupid ass on her scanner, then came into the station bitching out that poor bastard Riley who got stuck on the desk because he's IOD. You need to apologize to him too.”

 

“Yes, Sergeant. Understood. I wish I hadn't said it.”

 

“Damn right.” Nishioka hung up.

 

“What'd you get?” asked Taylor taking the phone back from him.

 

“Verbal counseling,” Zavala sighed.

 

Taylor sipped his soda.

 

“Been there.”

 

Zavala picked up his tamale.

 

“We fuckin' _live_ there, bro.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Digging into Simone Robbins' criminal records had yielded interesting results. She had been arrested once for domestic violence and twice for assault and battery, all against separate ex-boyfriends. As if this weren't enough to already pique the detectives' interest, Simone's brother, David, had been charged as an accomplice in the second assault.

 

Pace held the computer printout from the surveillance camera next to the image of David Robbins' mugshot on his phone.

 

“Tell me that's not him.”

 

Hunter nodded as he parked the sedan before a small duplex.

 

“There's a resemblance.”  
  
“Enough of a resemblance that we drove over here to talk to him.”

 

“Which one was it?” asked Hunter as they stepped from the car.  
  
“Unit 3,” Pace replied. “But...I think that's him now.”

 

A young man who closely matched the mugshot strolled from between the buildings, then froze when he saw the two detectives.

 

“Hey there, are you David Robbins?” asked Hunter with a polite smile.

 

The man shook his head and began to walk backwards, maintaining eye contact with them.

 

“Don't do it, man,” Pace sighed, already knowing the outcome.

 

Robbins bolted between the buildings. Pace sprinted across the lawn after him. Hunter glanced back at their Crown Vic briefly, then shook his head and chased after them.

 

Robbins charged down a narrow walkway that cut between the two rows of single-story apartments.

 

He looked back over his shoulder at the pursuing detectives and failed to notice the pink _Power Wheels_ jeep parked on the sidewalk before him.

 

He tripped over the large toy and landed hard on the gravel of the carport. Before he could stand, Pace's knee was already in his back and his arm was forcefully twisted behind him.

 

“Ow! Goddamn! Shit! Okay, you fuckin' got me!” Robbins howled. “Y'all ain't gotta break my fuckin' arm off, too!”

 

Pace snapped the cuffs on his wrists.

 

“Why you runnin,' bruh?”

 

“I ain't your bruh, _Officer_.”

 

“Detective,” Hunter replied as he helped pull Robbins to his feet.

 

XXXXXX

 

“Shit calls,” McGavin shook his head. “All fuckin' day. Shitty ass calls.”  
  
He and Orozco stood on opposite sides of a chain link fence as two members of the Coroner's officer wheeled a full body bag out of a house on a gurney.  
  
They had been dispatched on a welfare check, prompted by the concerned neighbors of a 92 year old woman who hadn't been seen for several days.

 

The officers found her decomposing in a back bedroom, having apparently died in her sleep.

 

“We need a win today, partner,” Orozco sighed. “Something's gotta go our way before the end of watch.”

 

“Don't bet on it.” McGavin patted his stomach. “You wanna get something to eat? Tommy's is just down the street.”  
  
“Seriously? We were _just_ inside that house with a rotting corpse.”  
  
He shrugged.

 

“The stomach wants what the stomach wants.”  
  
Orozco grimaced as she watched the attendants load the body into a white and blue striped van.  
  
“Nasty ass.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Hunter sat across the table from David Robbins in a small second floor interview room at Sunset Station.

 

Pace leaned against the wall in the corner to Hunter's right, arms folded.

 

Robbins stared straight ahead at Hunter, eyelids low. Hunter stared back.

 

“Why do you think you're here, David?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“Why'd you run?” asked Pace.

 

Robbins shrugged.

 

“Y'all was chasin' me.”  
  


Pace laughed.

  
“That's because you ran.”

 

Robbins shrugged again.

 

Hunter sipped bad coffee from a paper cup.

 

“I know why you ran.”

 

“Yeah? Why's that?”

 

Hunter pulled an 8X10 booking photo from his leather folder and placed it on the table.

 

Robbins smirked.

 

“So? My old mugshot. I look good, actually. Can I get a copy for my Facebook?”

 

Hunter pulled another photo from the binder and placed it beside the first one. Robbins bit his lip and looked away.

 

“I like this one better,” said Hunter, tapping the second picture. “See the guy in this picture here? The one from a bank security camera at Fifth and Vermont? He looks an awful lot like the guy in your mugshot.”

 

Robbins scratched the back of his head and looked at the ceiling.

 

“Naw, that ain't me.”

 

Hunter kept his eyes fixed on Robbins.

 

“What happened at Fifth and Vermont this morning, Detective Pace?”

 

“Somebody got shot at Fifth and Vermont,” Pace replied, stepping closer to the table.

 

“Who was it that got shot?”

 

“A young man named Darius Nichols. Coincidentally enough, Darius Nichols was Simone Robbins' boyfriend. Wanna hear another coincidence, Detective Hunter? Simone Robbins is our man David's sister.”

 

Hunter eased back in his chair while Pace leaned forward, resting his palms on the edge of the table.

 

“I tell ya, I don't believe much in coincidences,” Hunter clasped his hands behind his head. “David, where were you at this morning, around five-thirty?”

 

Robbins drummed his fingers on the table.

 

“I...was asleep.”

 

“Can anybody prove that?” asked Pace.

 

Robbins sighed and eyed the photos on the table.

 

“Tell me about your sister, David,” said Hunter. “She's got a temper doesn't she?”

 

Robbins shrugged.

 

“You know how women are.”

 

Hunter sat up straight and pulled a printout from his binder.

 

“I know how Simone is, apparently. Arrested three times for beating on her boyfriends. The third time, you got locked up as an accomplice.”

 

“She said he choked her.”

 

“So you had to back your sister's play when she went after her man? I get that. Dude puts his hands on your sister, he's gonna catch your hands, right?”

 

Robbins nodded.

 

“You know.”

 

“Except, in the police report here, the arresting officers found no evidence whatsoever that she had been choked. There's even pictures here. Did you see him choke her, or did she tell you that he did?”

 

“She told me,” Robbins replied quietly.

 

Pace leaned back against the wall.

 

“She played you didn't she? You and your sister went to her boyfriend's house and jumped him. How much time did you get for that?”

 

“What are you bringin' this up for?” Robbins exhaled. “That shit happened a while ago.”

 

“Two months in County,” said Hunter. “That's what he got. You got locked up in jail for two months of your life because your sister lied, David.”

 

“What did Simone tell you about Darius, David?” asked Pace. “What did she say _he_ did?”

 

Robbins lowered his head.

 

“Fuckin'...that fuckin'...bitch,” he mumbled. “Fuckin' Simone and her goddamned drama...”

 

Hunter folded his hands on the table before him.  
  


“Tell us what happened, David.”

 

“Man, I'm goin' down for a long time. I...fuckin'...should've known...fuckin'-”

 

His voice trailed off as he shook his head.

 

“She said Darius punched her in the stomach. She said that she was pregnant and he made her lose it.”

 

“When was this?”

 

“Last night. She called me up and was all shook up, cryin' an' shit. Told me what he did. I came over and I was gonna fuck him up, but he wasn't there. He was out at his fucking acting class. I told her, I was gonna wait for him and then beat his ass. She said that he deserved more than that. I said, 'What you mean? You want me to clip him?'. An' she said for what he did, he deserved to die. She told me, it had to be me. She said she'd probably chicken out. I mean...I wasn't cool with it, but family is family, you know. You hit my sister, you kill her baby? You gonna get got.”

 

Hunter scribbled on a notepad.

 

“What happened next?”

 

Robbins sat up straighter in his chair.

 

“She said he was gonna catch a bus early in the morning. That would be the best time to do it. So, I posted up in the alley down by that coffee shop and waited for him to walk by. I went up behind him and capped him in the back of the head. When he was on the ground...” he mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “I shot him two more times. Then I left and she picked me up-”

 

“Simone picked you up after you killed her boyfriend?” asked Pace.

 

“Yeah, she was waiting for me over by the McDonald's on First Street.”

 

“What did she say?” asked Hunter.

 

“She asked me if I did it. I said yeah and she just said 'good', and kinda smiled. Then we went back to her place so I could change. I gave her the threads I was wearing when I...when I did it.”

 

Hunter continued to take notes.

 

“What did she do with your clothes?”

 

“Threw 'em in the kitchen trash,” Robbins replied.

 

The detectives looked at each other.

 

Pace placed his hands on the table once more.  
  
“What'd you do with the gun?” he asked slowly.

 

“Gave it back to Simone. It was her gun.”

 

“What did she do with it?”

 

“Put it back in her bedroom. Then she took me home.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Reed and Malloy cruised through the early evening traffic. The sun had almost set, casting a pink sky over Los Angeles. A slight breeze had pushed out the clouds, leaving only a hint of smog.

 

“Any plans tonight?” asked Malloy.

 

“My wife Jean's got a yoga class tonight, so I'm on my own for dinner,” Reed replied. “I can finally order a pizza with pineapple on it.”

 

“She's not a fan, huh?”

 

“Oh no. Fruit on pizza? She can't stand it.”

 

Malloy chuckled.

 

“Smart woman.”

 

As they approached the cross street, a gray SUV rolled through the intersection without stopping.

 

“Great,” sighed Reed as they turned left and fell in behind the truck. “I really hope this guy doesn't have a warrant, we're almost EOW.”

 

Malloy shook his head.

 

“Way to jinx it, Junior.”

 

Reed tapped on the keyboard of the MDT, entering the truck's license plate number. The truck suddenly slowed down.

 

“Ten to one, he's gonna rabbit as soon as we light 'im up,” said Malloy.

 

“He's got reason to. It's a Glendale stolen,” Reed studied the screen as he picked up the mic. “22-Adam-12, show us following a Code-37 vehicle northbound Culpepper passing Woodley, Gray Ford Explorer, one male occupant, requesting back up units for a felony stop.”

 

“ _Sunset units, any Sunset unit_ ,” the radio squawked. “ _22-Adam-12 is following a Code-37 vehicle northbound Culpepper passing Woodley, requesting back up units for a felony stop._ ”

 

“ _22-X-Ray-22, show us backing_ ,” Taylor's voice answered.

 

The truck came to a full stop at the next stop sign, then turned left onto the next street. The black and white Charger followed, removing any doubt that the officers weren't interested in the vehicle.

 

“22-Adam-12, we're now westbound Haskell from Culpepper,” Reed reported.

 

The truck suddenly accelerated.

 

Malloy activated the siren and emergency lights.

 

“22-Adam-12, show us in pursuit now westbound Haskell passing Broadway _,”_ Reed called, _“_ requesting back up, supervisor and an air unit _._ ”

 

Three tones sounded over the radio, followed by the female dispatcher's measured cadence.

 

“ _All units on all frequencies stand by, 22-Adam-12 is in pursuit of a Code-37 vehicle, westbound Haskell from Broadway, requesting back up, air unit and a supervisor. Any available air unit, come in on Sunset frequency._ ”  
  
The SUV cut a hard left onto a busy boulevard. Malloy deftly avoided oncoming traffic as he guided the patrol car through the intersection.

 

Taylor and Zavala approached, headed towards the pursuit. As the truck and black and white sped past, Taylor hit the lights and siren as Zavala spun a quick U-turn.

 

“22-X-22, show us backing Adam-12 Code-3,” Taylor keyed the mic. “Pursuit is now southbound Ventura from Edgewood...approximately 70 miles per hour.”  
  
“Motherfucker,” Zavala grumbled. “Why does this shit always happen at end of watch?”

 

The Explorer bounced over railroad tracks and turned left onto a residential street, forcing a semi truck hauling a trailer to screech to a halt, nearly jack-knifing in the middle of the intersection.

 

“ _Air-11, we're Code-6 with the pursuit_ ,” the LAPD helicopter announced over the radio. “ _Looks like we're now southbound...La Mesa from San Pedro._ ”

 

The sun had all but set. The street lights were yet to activate and the rows of modest homes were illuminated by the police cars' brightly flashing red and blue light bars.

 

“I don't like this,” Malloy said tersely. “Narrow street, houses around. Too much can go wrong.”

 

Reed braced a hand against the dashboard as they bounced over a speed bump.

 

“Don't jinx it, partner.”

 

The pursuit continued on for several more blocks before the suspect turned onto a dead end street.

 

The truck slowed down as it approached a double guardrail which stood before a chain-link fence that lined a flood control channel.

  
The helicopter banked overhead and illuminated the street with brilliant white light from its spotlight.

 

“He's gonna bail,” said Reed, cracking open his door as Malloy slowed the black and white.

 

The suspect opened his door and ran from the still moving truck, which rolled into the guardrail.

 

As soon as Malloy stopped the Charger, Reed was out of the car and chasing after the suspect who ran between the houses on the left side of the street.

 

Taylor was only seconds behind after emerging from the second patrol car.

 

Reed drew his pistol and cautiously made his way into the backyard of a small one-story house with barred windows and peeling red paint. The spotlight washed over the house and lit up the backyard, revealing the suspect, a white man with a shaved head, attempting to scale an eight foot brick wall.

 

“Police! Get on the ground!” Reed barked, struggling to be heard over the roaring rotors of the helicopter above and the approaching sirens.

 

“On the ground!” Taylor shouted, his gun leveled at the suspect. “I will fucking shoot you! On the ground! Now!”

 

The suspect raised his hands, back turned to the officers, and dropped to his knees.

 

“Flat on your stomach! Hands out at your sides!”

 

The suspect complied and laid face down on the grass as the other officers entered the yard.

 

Reed and Taylor moved closer, each with their guns trained on the suspect.

 

“I got you,” Taylor called to Reed.

 

Reed holstered his weapon, then dropped to one knee. He pulled the suspect's arms behind his back and handcuffed him before performing a cursory search for weapons.

 

Malloy looked up to the helicopter and held up four fingers. The copter switched off its light and climbed higher into the sky as it flew off.

 

“22-Adam-12, pursuit is Code-4, one in custody,” Zavala called into his radio.

 

Reed marched the man out into the street and pushed him onto the hood of their black and white so that he could better search him. Several more patrol units wailed to a stop in the street.

 

“Your partner's got some wheels, Malloy,” Taylor said, hooking his fingers over the collar of his vest.

 

“Good. I hate running, anyway,” Malloy smirked.

 

Reed continued to frisk the suspect, clearing out his pockets. He handed the man's wallet to his partner.

 

“Samuel C. Oswalt,” Malloy read the man's license aloud. “I'll run him.”

 

“Oswalt?” Reed shot him a look, then pulled the suspect upright and stared him down. “Yeah, that's why you look familiar.”  
  
“This shit bag a friend of yours, Reed?” asked Zavala. “Man, all the white people really _do_ know each other...”

 

“Monday was my last day at Central,” said Reed. “We got a bulletin in roll call about a kidnapping from Grand Central Market. Suspect was the victim's boyfriend. I checked before I came on this morning. She's still missing.”

 

“Where is she?” Taylor stepped up beside Reed.

 

The suspect sucked his teeth.

 

“Man, I don't know where she is.”

 

“Three eyeball witnesses say otherwise,” said Reed.

 

Taylor stepped closer to the suspect, so that their faces were two inches apart.

 

“What the fuck did you do with her, you piece of shit?”

 

“Partner,” Zavala grabbed his arm. “Back up.”

 

Taylor and the suspect silently glared at each other.

 

“Del Monaco Plaza,” said Malloy, pulling a plastic key card from the suspect's wallet. “It's that cheap motel up here on Victory, north end of the division.”

 

The suspect grimaced and looked away.

 

Malloy handed the wallet to his partner.

 

“I'll call the watch commander.”

 

XXXXXX

 

“You can't do this shit! What's wrong with you people?!” Simone Robbins snapped as Hunter, Pace and two uniforms from Hollywood Station entered her apartment.

 

Hunter handed her a copy of the search warrant.  
  
“This says we can.”

 

She watched wide-eyed as Pace and one of the patrol officers headed into the back bedroom.

 

“You can't go in there!” she called. “You cannot go in there!”

 

“I'll check the closet,” Pace said to the officer, a stocky guy with a salt and pepper crew cut named Garcia. “Check the nightstand first.”

 

Pace slid open the closet door and began to rifle through any box or container he could find. He then pushed through all of the clothes on the rack, searching every inch of the small storage space.

 

Garcia searched the drawers of the nightstand, pulling each one free from the frame and cautiously dumping each one out into a pile on the floor.

 

“Any luck detective?” he asked over his shoulder.

 

“Nothing,” Pace sighed. “You?”

 

Garcia pulled the bottom draw free and smiled.

 

“I've got a .9mm magazine and a hundred round box of ammo,” the officer replied, displaying his prizes as he stood. “No piece, though.”

 

Pace looked around, planning his next move. He scanned the room. There was a dresser, a small chair, and not much else.

 

“Wait a minute,” he sighed. “My old FTO would kick my ass right now. He always told me one of the first places to search was under the mattress...”

 

He swept several pillows off of the bed, then lifted the mattress and rested it on its side against the closet door. A Beretta .9mm pistol sat in the middle of the box spring.

 

Meanwhile, another patrol officer leaned in through the apartment's front door and nodded to Hunter.

 

“Can I talk to you a minute, Detective?”

 

Hunter stepped out into the hall where the officer presented him with two large clear evidence bags. One held a gray sweatshirt, the other a pair of gray track pants.

 

“Turns out she actually _was_ dumb enough to toss them in the dumpster downstairs.”

 

Hunter smiled and was about to speak when Pace called his name from inside.

 

He stepped back into the apartment to find his partner holding a sealed evidence bag containing a silver pistol.

 

“Anything to say for yourself, Simone?” Hunter said as he stared down at the woman.

 

She shook her head and looked away.

 

“Fuck you. That's not mine. You probably planted it.”

 

Hunter smirked as he nodded to one of the uniforms.

 

“Hook her up.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Orozco and Mcgavin stood in the alcove of the Del Monaco Plaza front office. A puffy eyed clerk looked at them from behind inch thick safety glass.

 

“I ain't gotta give you shit,” he said, sitting in an office chair, the Kings game playing on a small monitor before him. “We respect our guests' privacy here.”

 

“You understand this is an emergency, right?” Orzco snapped. “There may be a kidnapping victim in one of your rooms. We need the key card.”

 

“You got a warrant?”

 

“Fuck this,” McGavin said as he forcefully threw open the glass door and marched outside.

 

His partner followed him into the courtyard-like parking lot, surrounded on three sides by the two story motel. Each room was nearly identical, a dark orange door with a large picture window beside it. Most windows had the curtains drawn.

 

“What was the room number?”

 

“104.”

 

“End of the hall,” McGavin drew his pistol and slipped between two parked cars.

 

Orozco followed him down the open hallway, holding her gun low at her side.

 

They took up positions on either side of the door. McGavin pounded three times with the bottom of his fist.

 

“Los Angeles Police Department! Open the door!”

 

A muffled scream came from inside. The officers looked at each other. McGavin stepped back and kicked in the door. It swung open and they entered, guns leveled before them.

 

A young woman with dark hair, wearing a dirty white tank top and light blue underwear looked back at them with pleading eyes. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth and her hands were bound over her head, secured to the headboard with a nylon jump rope.

 

The room was filthy, littered with empty pizza boxes, take out containers, and used beer bottles.

 

“Is there anyone else in here?” McGavin asked loudly.

 

The woman shook her head. He checked the bathroom anyway.

 

“Clear!” he called.

 

Orozco lowered a knee onto the bed and pulled the tape from the woman's mouth.

 

“Thank you! Thank you!” the young woman sobbed. “Thank you!”

 

“It's okay,” Orozco brushed a strand of hair from the woman's face. “You're safe. You're okay now.”

 

“Sam...Sammy...he'll be back...”

 

“Nope. No. We got him,” Orozco untied the rope. “We got him.”

 

As soon as her hands were free, the woman collapsed into Orozco's arms.

 

Orzco glanced back over her shoulder at McGavin who stood near the door. He nodded to her.

 

“I'll call it in,” he said, clearing his throat before he stepped back outside.

 

XXXXXX

 

Reed and Malloy stepped into the Sunset Station parking lot in street clothes.

 

“Nice catch,” said Malloy. “Remembering that guy from the bulletin.”

 

“Not bad for a lowly P-2, right?”

 

Malloy nodded as a he cracked a weary smile and unlocked the door of his midnight blue Challenger.

 

“Okay. Maybe I was a little rough on you this morning.”

 

Reed shrugged, hands in his pockets.

 

“And...maybe I was a bit of a jerk.”

 

Malloy chuckled as he slid in behind the wheel.

 

“Maybe. I'm meeting Rideout for a beer. You in?”

 

Reed pulled the keys from his pocket and used the fob to unlock the doors of his pickup with an electronic chirp.

 

“Nah, I'm kinda beat. I'll see you tomorrow, partner.”

 

“See you tomorrow,” Malloy started the car. “Enjoy your pineapple pizza.”

 

Hunter and Pace crossed the parking lot to their respective cars.

 

“So she killed poor Darius because he was gonna leave her,” Pace shook his head. “I've been a cop a while, but I don't know if I'll ever understand people.”

 

“Oh, I gave up a long time ago,” Hunter replied. “Look, our day started with a murder and ended up with two in custody, both signing confessions. It was a good day. They all don't go like that.”

 

“True,” Pace slipped on his jacket. “Hey, my wife wants to meet you. She said you're welcome up at the house anytime. I've got plenty of ribs left over from a cookout we had Saturday. Sound good?”

 

“It does,” Hunter leaned against his Jeep. “I've uh, got plans, though. Maybe another time.”

 

“Alright,” Pace climbed into his car. “See you tomorrow.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Zavala closed his front door. He slipped off his jacket and hung it up in the closet.

 

His wife Gabby pranced out of the kitchen, holding aloft a cold bottle of _Dos Equis_.

 

“Hi, baby!” she grinned, before wrapping an arm around his neck and kissing him passionately.

 

He kissed her on the neck as he broke the embrace.

 

“Hey, babe,” he smiled. “What was that for?”

 

“Junior had a big play date today,” she handed him the bottle.

 

“Okay? Uh, I mean...weird thing to celebrate, but...okay...”

 

“Miguel. That means he's tired himself out. Which means he'll sleep well tonight...which means...”

 

He took a long sip from the bottle, then paused.

 

“Oh! You mean, we can get our freak on?!”

 

She bit her bottom lip and smiled as she nodded. He kicked off his shoes and pulled her close.

 

“Come here, you dirty girl!”

 

She pushed her palms against his shoulders.

 

“I have to return a couple of calls from some clients, but then...I'm all yours.”

 

“Alright, fine,” he sighed.

 

“I heated up some _pozole_. It's in the living room. Go eat. I'll be back in a few.”

 

“I love you, baby!” he called, dropping onto the couch. “I don't care what Brian says about you.”

 

“Shut up,” she called from the kitchen. “Brian loves me.”

 

He peeled the tinfoil from the bowl of soup and eased back onto the couch. Gabby would return fifteen minutes later wearing her sexiest lingerie, only to find the empty bowl on the coffee table and her husband sound asleep with his arms stretched across the back of the couch.

 

She lightly kissed the top of his head, then rounded the couch and sat down next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder. He instinctively wrapped an arm around her.

 

XXXXXX

 

Taylor sat at the bar in his kitchen, picking at a plate of chicken and rice. His wife Janet leaned forward on the other side, her elbows resting on the counter.

 

“You're not serious,” she giggled.

 

“I'm totally serious,” he laughed, mouth full.

 

“Mike actually used the term _midget_ over the radio?”

 

He nodded, chuckling.

 

“Sarge yelled at him and everything. It was hilarious. Turns out the guy wasn't even a dwarf.””

 

“That's too funny,” she picked a piece of asparagus from his plate and popped it into her mouth. “So what else happened today?”

 

He stared down at his plate. Images of the high speed pursuit and charging into a darkened back yard with his gun drawn flashed through his mind. He remembered staring into the eyes of a kidnapping suspect.

 

He shrugged and smiled as he locked eyes with her.

 

“Um, nothing. It was a quiet day, actually.”

 

She stood up and brushed her hands against her apron.

 

“Good. That's good. I um...I got some of that fancy _gelato_ from _Whole Foods_ that you like. We can have that later.”

 

He smiled at her.

“You're too good to me.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Hunter stood on the balcony of his small, two story house that overlooked one of Venice Beach's famous canals. It was a quiet night. A slight breezed rustled the palm trees. The lights of the apartments and houses on either side of the canal were reflected in the water.

 

He sipped from a long neck bottle and looked at his watch. His phone vibrated twice in the left rear pocket of his jeans. He slipped it out and opened the screen to see a text message from his ex-partner, Dee Dee McCall.

 

“ _Sorry. OIS in the Valley. Cop's okay, but we're gonna be here a while. Rain check_?”

 

OIS, an officer involved shooting. Just one of the many investigative duties belonging to the Robbery-Homicide Division. Hunter knew from experience how long she would be on scene.

 

“ _No problem_ ,” he texted back. “ _Maybe next weekend._ ”

 

He turned and blew out the two candles that had been flickering on the patio table, then slid open the glass door and stepped into the kitchen. He grabbed one of the two take out tins of lasagna from the stove, along with one of the complementary plastic utensil packets.

 

He sat down on the couch and flipped on the TV.

 

XXXXXX

 

McGavin and Orozco stood behind their black and white SUV with the hatch open. They had just returned from the hospital where their kidnap victim had been admitted and where they also gave their statements to the Central Division detectives assigned to the case. They were the only officers from their watch left at Sunset Station.

 

McGavin pointed the muzzle of the shotgun towards the night sky as he emptied the rounds from the weapon. He collected the shells, then pulled his war bag from the back of their unit.

 

Orozco slung the empty bean bag shotgun over one shoulder and grabbed her own bag before closing the rear door.

 

“This fuckin' day,” she sighed as they trudged toward the station.

 

“At least we got our win, right?”

 

“What?”  
  


“This afternoon at the dead lady's house.” He held the door for her before following her inside. “After all of the shit calls we had, you said we needed a win. Finding that girl in the motel? Alive? That's a pretty big fuckin' win.”

 

Orzoco dropped her bag outside of the kit room.

 

“You're right,” she sighed, handing over her shotgun and radio to the officer in the cage. “At least we could help _her_.”

 

He handed off his own gear and shook his head as he signed the log.

 

“You're still thinking about the kids from this morning? It's not gonna do you any good, Orozco. We did what we could.”

 

“I know,” she picked up her bag and headed down the hall. “Just doesn't feel like we're doing enough sometimes.”

 

“Tell it to that girl in the hospital we just left who thought she'd never see her family again,” he replied, following her. “Take your wins where you can get 'em.”

 

“I must be tired. Pacman's making sense. What are you doing tonight?”

 

He smiled slyly as he paused at the door of the men's locker room.

 

“With any luck, a badge bunny I met last night at _The Pit Stop_.”

 

She flashed a disgusted expression.

 

“Jesus, you're a pig.”

 

He disappeared into the locker room.

 

“See ya tomorrow, partner,” he called.

 

She shook her head with a smirk before heading into the women's locker room.

 

**END**

 

_This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, places or events_  
_is purely coincidental. All law enforcement and legal information may not be accurate._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary/Notes
> 
> Shop: Slang for police car. Derived from the number on the roof, known as a shop number which is used by the motor pool and mechanics to keep track of the vehicle.
> 
> War Bag: A duffel type bag filled with any extra equipment/belongings that a patrol officer may need in the field, which could range from a tactical helmet to packs of sunflower seeds.
> 
> Bean Bag Shotgun: A regular .12 gauge shotgun that fires bean bag rounds, used to stun/incapacitate a suspect. Typically marked with a colored stripe to separate it from the shotguns that fire live rounds.
> 
> EOW: End of watch.
> 
> P-1: Police Officer-I. The lowest LAPD rank. A rookie. Also known as a “boot”.
> 
> P-2: Police Officer-II. Intermediate rank. A police officer could stay a P-2 their entire career if they wish, though many choose to promote.
> 
> P-3: Police Officer-III. A senior officer who wears two stripes and can act as a supervisor when needed. Also eligible for special assignments such as SWAT or METRO.
> 
> Adam Unit: The radio designation for a 2 officer patrol unit.
> 
> X-Ray: The radio designation for a supplemental patrol unit.
> 
> Code-37-Stolen vehicle.
> 
> Code-6: Field Investigation.
> 
> Code-4: Situation is under control/no further assistance needed.
> 
> Code-3: A high priority call necessitating the use of emergency lights and siren.
> 
> Four Fingers: A quick hand signal used by police officers to signify that everything is under control (Code-4).
> 
> 211: The California penal code for armed robbery.
> 
> 415: Disturbance.
> 
> RHD: Robbery-Homicide Division, the LAPD's top detective unit. Responsible for any high profile or major case,  
> especially anything involving a serial component, as well as officer involved shootings.
> 
> FID: Force Investigation Division. LAPD unit that investigates uses of force by the department's officers.
> 
> Sam Browne: A gun belt/utility belt worn by patrol officers.
> 
> MDT: Mobile Data Terminal. An on-board computer used in most patrol vehicles.
> 
> R.A.: Rescue Ambulance.


End file.
